


In With the New

by Tonko



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonko/pseuds/Tonko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji has difficult nights and busy days while and he and Zeff make the Baratie ready to sail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In With the New

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the hc_bingo challenge on Livejournal, for the prompt "comfort food". Beta'd by my most patient [printfogey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/printfogey/profile), and any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> I consider this a follow-up to [Falling off the Rock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242132), but reading that is not necessary.

Sanji woke up with a gasp, like he had every night in the city, staring wildly around the dark hotel room, heart racing like it wanted to break apart his chest. He hugged himself, felt his fingers close around his upper arms, squeezed at the muscle there. Not bones with skin over them. Not anymore. He pinched at them a few times, then lay back and put his hands to his belly, prodding it through the fabric of his nightshirt. Not sunken. He slid his hands up a little and pressed his fingers in. Ribs were under a good layer of skin.

He wasn’t even hungry. They’d had supper, yesterday. And lunch before that. And breakfast.

It had been months. Months, since the rock. He was better now.

“Hey, little eggplant?” Zeff’s voice was scratchy with sleep, but Sanji heard him get out of the other bed, and the heavy sound of his one foot against the floor. The night table between the beds creaked as the old man leaned on it, bracing to half-swing himself across the narrow space. He leaned over Sanji’s bed.

“Sh-shitty geezer,” Sanji tried to growl. Sounded like he’d just run for miles.

Zeff had filled out too, all back to normal. No more sunken eyes or sharp cheekbones under papery skin, just his big mustache and the deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth. Sanji stared at him, fisting his hands against the urge to reach out and touch his face, just to make sure.

There wasn’t any need, he told himself. Wasn’t. Zeff trained him every morning, and Sanji knew the feel of his hands--hard and strong--shoving his body into the right positions so he would balance properly, catching his ankles when his handstands tilted too far. He knew the strength in him from whenever the old man knocked him over or sent him sprawling with that new peg-leg.

Zeff peered down at him, patted him on the chest, big hand warm and heavy. “Uh-huh,” was all he said. He yawned and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

He stayed there until Sanji couldn’t keep himself awake anymore.

*

The old man kept Sanji hopping, sending him back and forth from one dealer to another with messages, dragging him back to the hotel to sleep each day for a few hours around noon, which Sanji argued and swore about, but inevitably did, because the nightmares didn’t come during the day. Then it was back out into the city.

They ate at all kinds of places, all kinds of food, sandwiches to sushi to carpaccio to curry.

There were beggars here, of course.

It was a big city. Lots of rich people, and lots of poor people. When they’d first arrived, Zeff had grabbed Sanji’s shoulder and yanked him away from one smelling of sour wine and asking for some change to buy bread.

“No. Leave him.” Zeff’s hand had been tense, and Sanji looked up to find strain on his face that matched the tightness in his own chest. “He’ll only buy more wine. Shithead is drunk out of his mind if he’s begging off _me_ ,” Zeff snorted. “Lucky I didn’t kick his head in.” Sanji realized that was true. People tended to get out of Zeff’s way on instinct. He rarely remembered how Zeff seemed to strangers anymore, didn’t fear the power in him, but if he tried he could bring back that night, in the storm. “This isn’t the sea,” Zeff added, still tense. “Lot harder to starve.”

So for most of their time in the city, Sanji dashed around the trade district as Zeff haggled for the best deal on fittings and equipment that were needed to complete the final construction of the Baratie. No longer in dry-dock, it was a fully working ship. It just needed everything for the restaurant itself.

Zeff hired carpenters and loomed over their work, bought raw lumber and completed furniture, chose paint, cutlery, dishes, cooking tools, sourced dry goods and shipping services for fresh ones, and then a thousand things they needed on the ship and another thousand things Sanji had never thought about before, for the restaurant (plumbing, tile grout, carpets, upholstery, window treatments, crown molding--whatever that was), all to be finished before they left.

The trade district was full of shops, restaurants, food stalls and markets. _A lot harder to starve_. Sanji repeated that to himself, but it _wasn’t_ so hard for those who didn’t have money. Seeing hungry people made him feel cold and made his hands itch with uselessness. He couldn’t stand it, even with all the waste he knew was ending up in the garbage bins and bags in the alleys. So apples and pork buns and onigiri from different market stalls were dropped into the hands of people less fortunate than him. Like the one-handed man with the two little children. Or the grubby kid with orange hair stuffed under a cap who’d tried to pickpocket him.

Never mind the shitty old man’s rules. If Zeff noticed the discrepancy when he took the change back from whatever cash he’d given Sanji to pay for ship purchases that day, he never said anything.

Sanji fell asleep every night trying not to remember, and it came back anyway. Dead rock, empty hands. One time, the beggars were there, surrounding him, just sitting and staring at him, faces hollow as the old man’s had been, their arms and legs spidery thin but limp like a dead thing’s and faces that turned towards him wherever he moved.

He woke up sobbing, then snarled at the old man, and refused to go back to sleep after that, staring at the ceiling until the sun came up and the sounds of the city started again.

Then he gave up the fight to stay awake. Zeff didn’t get him up until noon, that day, and said nothing about it, only sent him on, after lunch, to the textiles dealer who was making their curtains, napkins and tablecloths.

It didn’t matter anyway. He could still run all the errands the shitty geezer could ever need, and keep up his sparring and forms, too. If only that would tire him out enough to kill the dreams. They wouldn’t be here forever; every day the ship was a little closer to being really complete.

Finally, the morning of their last whole day in port, Zeff took Sanji to a store where the walls were lined with beautiful knives. They were better than anything he’d ever used on the Orbit. Sanji came out clutching a case with an _entire set_ of them to his chest. His very own.

And then, “Take that and go to the market,” Zeff told him. Sanji looked at the little pile of bills and coins on the table in front of him. They’d come back to the hotel, and he’d eaten and slept, not expecting any more errands. All that was left today was to oversee the loading of the last cargo, and making sure the paint was actually dry in the sleeping quarters so that he, Zeff and the remaining contractors wouldn’t be on bedrolls in the dining room. Though Sanji just wanted out of the city, fumes or no fumes, bedroll or otherwise.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the money. “What do you need this time, geezer?” Sanji gathered it up carefully, counting it out. Seventy thousand belli.

“Not what _I_ need.” Zeff had the designs for the Baratie out on the table in front of him, still making notes, even now.

“You don’t make any sense, old man.”

“The morning’s outgoing tide, we’re sailing. You have knives, you cook for us tomorrow.” Sanji felt that thrill again, of knowing he’d was going to be in that kitchen with the shitty old man, and stared down at the money in his hands.

“But--” wait. “It’s the first day.” Sanji protested. They may not be ready to actually open, the only people to cook for was the workers, but that was still... important.

Zeff stared at him, eyebrows rising in that way that meant what Sanji had just said was both obvious and completely irrelevant.

Sanji looked over at the knife case, sitting open on the little table in their hotel room. He’d been avidly handling the contents of it since he finished his midday nap, feeling the way they balanced in his hands and smiling like some stupid little kid, until Zeff had dumped the money on the table.

He saw the recipe pages in his head, the ones the shitty geezer had made him copy down and memorize and then explain why this it took this many minutes on the meat, why this long before adding those spices, which ones could he substitute with these other ones, and--”Not one of mine,” Zeff’s voice cut in, and Sanji’s eyes widened, the recipes replaced suddenly with the array of meat and fish and produce in the markets that he had to choose from.

He put away the money, touched the handle of the-- _his_ \--chef’s knife one more time, the boning knife, the cleaver... he made himself close the case.

“You still here?” Zeff didn’t look up from the ship designs.

“No,” he answered--which was dumb but he didn’t care right then--and headed for the door. He looked back once, discovered Zeff was watching him, chin propped on his fist. Sanji felt his nose wrinkle with the effort to keep it in, but the smile spread out before he could duck around fast enough and so he yanked the door closed extra hard to make up for that.

Selecting and handling the food in the market himself was exciting in a way different than when Zeff had taken him around the bulk suppliers, showed him what the standards were for choosing among them.

This was just him, his own choices, for a real meal he was gonna finally get to cook himself. He ignored the amused and indulgent looks from the housewives and sellers, drifting from orange cart to herb stall to blanket on the ground in front of couple of farmer kids, displaying bundles of rhubarb, and onward through the rows.

The fish market drew him in, familiar smells, and he looked through arrays of rhino shrimp with their huge thick antennae, sea trout, hairy crab, panda shark--whole and in nice large fillets--octopus, spotted squid, sandy eels, brown-bellied freshwater crayfish and thumbnail clams from inland ...

All of it good, all of it a display of the island’s edible sea and freshwater life. Nothing too exotic here, look as he might, not that he’d risk ruining anything he didn’t know how to cook, even though his experience did extend past what was available here. But no errant currants had driven anything interesting into local nets or traps.

He stood, staring down into a bucket full of crabs, watching them crawl slowly over each other. These ones were little, caught near the coast; blue cutter crabs, with big clumsy pincers. He pictured them scattered against a sandy ocean floor, their low round bodies and fat claws in among tall, spindly spider crabs, the huge, squat algae-backs and the patchy-spotted yellow and black sunspot crabs. Among them swam panda sharks and leafy sea-dragons and huge whale sharks and glinting goldenside barracuda and schools of sardines and herring and toothfish...

All Blue would be like that.

Sanji took a long breath, closed his eyes. Brought up the Baratie blueprints and the old man’s avid explanations of how the restaurant was set up. Made himself see that stupid peg-leg and remember the limping and tripping while Zeff got used to it. Remembered the useless treasure pouring out of the slit Sanji had cut in the sack. No food in there. The old man would never see All Blue, but the two of them were going to make the best restaurant in the ocean.

“Can I help you, sweetie?” The voice was a lady’s, and Sanji recovered from his startle to smile at her. She was beautiful, with shiny brown hair and big blue eyes and a polite smile.

“Uh, uh,” he scrambled his thoughts into order. “Good afternoon, Miss,” he said properly, and felt himself blush a little when her smile widened into a real one. “Yes, please, I need three of your biggest sea trout.”

He pointed out exactly which ones he wanted, then waited, bouncing on his toes, as she wrapped them for him. Their weight was oddly reassuring in his arms.

In the end, he came back to the hotel with a crate full of food and plans still not quite nailed down in his head. Contingencies for what he didn’t use, of course--the rhubarb could be preserved if he didn’t make the pie right away, and the turnip could be pickled. And there were endless possibilities with the eggs.

They had an arrangement with the hotel kitchen--Zeff had found some beer he’d bought on the spot, and it was in the hotel’s wine cellar. Sanji was likewise allowed a little corner of the big walk-in cooler for his own things.

The old man wasn’t there when Sanji got back to their room--off inspecting their restaurant, surely, the last delivery was just starting at this hour--so he opened the book that he’d spent so much time copying recipes into. He turned to a blank page, mulling over which menu items he was most sure of. _Tarte aux fraises et rhubarbe_ , he finally wrote at the top, and started on the ingredients.

Zeff got back after sunset, carrying a takeaway box from the curry shop they’d agreed was the best. Sanji was rewriting the appetizer course, but he slammed the recipe book shut before the geezer got close enough to peek, and glared at him. “I’m not showing you.”

A dismissive snort was his only answer. “Your shitty handwriting is all chicken scratch anyway, brat. Eat up.”

Sanji ate, mind still on his own recipes, and that didn’t change even afterwards, so he kept answering the wrong thing to the old man’s quizzing. Zeff gave up in disgust after a while, but Sanji returned to the recipe book. After a while, he was rubbing at his eyes to stay awake as he crossed out and rewrote instructions to himself, added and removed ingredients, and put a line through a whole soup idea to start again from the beginning.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, or the shitty geezer moving him. He didn’t remember any dreams.

He woke up on his bed to Zeff shaking him.

“Get up, baby eggplant.”

Sanji blinked up at the familiar craggy face. It was lit by the morning light that was streaming through the window. He pushed himself upright and stared. He’d fallen asleep... and then woken up. Nothing in between. He looked up at Zeff, wide eyed. There was relief in the old man’s face that matched his own, and Sanji looked away again, just as fast. “You better not have looked at my recipes,” he snapped.

“You think I want to see what slop you’re planning?” Zeff returned easily, moving back to sit on his own bed and finish fitting on his pegleg. “Get your ass out of bed, lazy brat, and get ready.”

When they got down to the dock, Sanji’s ribs were smarting wonderfully from one of Zeff’s kicks. He’d dodged a lot during their shorter-than-usual sparring session, and he _knew_ he’d felt his heel connect with Zeff’s ribs at _least_ twice, no matter what the old man said.

Sanji had put his food crate in among the loading wagon that Zeff’s casks of beer and assorted other last-minute items were on. He’d sat on it to protect it from the old man’s prying eyes for most of the way down from the hotel.

As they neared the docks, though, he was unable to sit still, climbing down to go up ahead of the wagon and walk with Zeff, eyes fixed on every upcoming turn until finally there was the forest of masts from moored ships and smaller boats, and then he just took off running.

He’d seen the plans, and he’d seen some of the early work done, the hull and the skeleton of the walls, but that had been before the rigging or the paint or the detail work and with all that in place it looked _perfect_. He slowed to a stop in front of it.

 _A restaurant out on the sea_ , he thought, feeling tears make his eyes blurry, even though he wasn’t sad at all.

The gaping fish “figurehead” (and he snickered at the surprise of anyone who attacked and saw what THAT was for) was brilliant white and orange, matching the striped sails. The bottom deck was red and the walls were a pale turquoise and the railings were stained dark brown, the wood grain looking rich and fancy...

The step-tap of Zeff’s gait came up behind him and Sanji turned to him, grinning and not caring at all that he was. Zeff stopped and folded his arms, a smile of his own spreading out under his mustache. Sanji turned back to Zeff’s ship and flung his arms out, like he could grab the whole thing and hold onto it. Well, he would, even if he couldn’t do it with just his hands. “It’s amazing, shitty geezer!” He looked it up and down again. “So this is the _Baratie_! The sea restaurant!”

It was _real_. The old man’s wish was _real_.

“Sure is.” The grin was big in Zeff’s voice, Sanji didn’t even need to look. “I sank all the treasure into it, and we’re still in debt,” Zeff said. That didn’t matter, Sanji thought breathlessly. That was just _money_. “So we’re gonna be busy!”

“No problem.” Sanji put his hands on his hips and took a satisfied breath. “I’m here!”

*

He carried his crate into the kitchen himself, running ahead of the geezer but stopping short when he went through the door the first time, halted by the sight of the completed kitchen. The spotless counters, gleaming taps and sinks, the stove ranges and the ovens...

A shivering thrill filled him from head to toes and held his head up and walked through, all the way to the cold storage area, to put away his perishable supplies. He could hear Zeff outside barking at the workers as they boarded, and when he felt the lurch of castoff, he was already elbows-deep in among the dry goods, sorting things out of barrels and sacks into the mason jars and various containers and dispensers he could actually use on the counters.

Zeff wandered in at some point to give some shitty comments about why the hell d’you put this at the back of the shelf, idiot, you’ll be using it all the time, or why did you fill a whole large mason jar with that when you’ll never use more than a few dashes at a time, and on and on.

Sanji argued, because, well, _because_ , and then corrected all the mistakes Zeff pointed out, found out what the next steps in setup were, and got to work. He did stop for a while to prepare the rhubarb chutney that was going along with the lunch meal, but while it simmered, he only needed to stir sometimes, so kept right on organizing.

It was only when he had the chutney safely out into jars and the pork chops in the pan that he realized that while he had enough plates to go around, he had no idea where the serving trays were.

Maybe in the big crate with the tablecloths?

He frowned down at the two big pans of sizzling meat, checked that the spiced fried potatoes were still hot, then decided trays didn’t matter so much, since they were eating in the cooks’ dining room. The real dining room wasn’t done yet, the chairs stacked five high around the central column while the paint went up, but the smaller one would be fine for this... Two plates at a time would have to do. He hadn’t done any waiting on tables on the Orbit, and he wasn’t going to risk dropping anything just to carry more.

Zeff arrived just as the chops were done and Sanji was plating everything. He sniffed the air, redolent with frying pork and the lingering sweetness of the chutney that had been simmering. He said nothing, eyes moving along the counter space that Sanji had used. “Not a slob at least.”

“I keep my stations clean,” Sanji said primly, spooning chutney onto the last plate. The cutting boards still needed actual scrubbing, but he always washed off his knives right away and there were no stray bits of food scattered and he hadn’t spilled anything or covered the space with cayenne or paprika while seasoning the potatoes.

“Dining table is too. Completely. Or were you planning for us to eat with our hands?” Zeff asked. Sanji froze with mortification, earning a snicker from Zeff as the geezer fetched utensils from a drawer, and a stack of glasses.

Sanji got down off his stepstool--shitty counters were so damned high--and followed with a jug of water. Zeff had said no beer or wine during the day, but for supper, there was a good red for the fish, even if the old man was stupid and wouldn’t let him have any.

Zeff hollered down to the work crew that food was ready and the sound of heavy boots came up the stairs as Sanji was putting down the last napkin. Ten place settings, including him and Zeff.

The last workman pulled his chair in, and they were all looking at him, some of them doubtfully.

One of the younger ones, a big guy with purple hair in a braid and sawdust all over his clothes, picked up his fork and tapped it on the table. “That twerp really done all the cookin’?” he snorted. Sanji frowned darkly. “Come on, I’m hungry, I been workin’ all morning. I don’t want no snotty brat feedin’ me some half-burnt trash.”

Zeff half-rose from his own chair, snatched the fork from the man’s hand and slammed it down on the table hard enough to rattle everything else on it.

The big guy shrank back, then flinched like someone had kicked him under the table.

“Insult my chef again, and you’re swimming back,” Zeff said.

Sanji glanced sideways at Zeff for a moment, surprised and bolstered by the protective anger there. He raised his chin and shot a superior smile at the moron.

Now, time to feed everyone. Even the moron.

He brought the plates out, two at a time. The fancier waitering stuff like carrying six at once was definitely something he’d have to learn.

For now it was back and forth, back and forth, until all the plates were out except his.

“Jofi, it smells like a fuckin’ five-star joint, you are so fulla shit.” The big man’s neighbour, a beanpole of a guy with a huge nose and a shaved head, leaned down to breathe in the steam rising off the spiced potatoes as Sanji set the plate down. “Oho, that’s heaven, li’l guy, it is.” He caught up his fork and inhaled three potatoes in one bite staring upwards at the ceiling for a moment. “God, I was so fuckin’ hungry,” he said happily, his mouth full.

Sanji was stopped from responding to the ‘li’l guy’ description with the indignation it deserved by the staggering rush of utter satisfaction at the reaction to his-- _his_ \--food.

He looked along the rest of the table.

The foreman, a fellow of Zeff’s age, but with silver hair, sawed a chunk off his pork chop and bit down with gusto.

The skinny red-haired teenager was already holding his plate up right to his chin, eating like he had hollow insides.

Everyone was eating.

Except Zeff. “Gonna get the rest?” the geezer asked, pointing a thumb towards the kitchen.

Sanji blinked, then rushed back to bring out the bowls of extra potatoes, the platters with the rest of the pork chops, one of the extra jars of chutney, the salad, and the second jug of water.

His own plate was last. He looked at it on the counter, and blew out a big breath, feeling suddenly light. The first meal had been served.

Taking his plate, he headed back out and climbed into the seat next to Zeff. He discovered, to his dismay, that geezer’s plate was still full. Sanji looked up a little higher, meeting a surprisingly mild look.

“Well... eat it, old man!” Sanji snapped. One of the workers made a choking sound, and the sounds of cutlery on plates paused

“I’ll eat when I’m good and ready, you little shit,” Zeff returned, reaching for the salad bowl and adding some more to his plate. Sanji glared at him. “You overcooked the onions in the chutney, there’s too much mustard seed in there, and half the potatoes are burnt.”

Sanji fumed. The potatoes _were not burnt_. A few of them, _maybe_ , were just a _bit_ dark on the corners. That was _all_. “Stupid geezer! How can you even know if you didn’t eat anything yet?!” he sputtered. “Did _they_ tell you?” He waved one arm at the workmen. “Their shitty palates wouldn’t know soup from seawater.” Another choking noise from that general direction.

A hesitant voice piped up. “Uh, actually, it’s all really g--”

“Who asked you?!” Zeff and Sanji barked simultaneously at the meek-looking fellow with paint stains all over him. He subsided instantly and returned to his plate instead.

There was the sound of muffled laughter from someone, but Sanji only cared about one person at this table.

“I know because these are seconds, baby eggplant.” Zeff stabbed a fork into a couple of lettuce leaves. “Now eat _yours_. And then think about the shitty mix of balsamic and wine you used for this vinaigrette. You tryin’ to burn holes in our throats?”

Sanji hunched down and dug in, chewing slowly and searching for everything Zeff had just said. As he ate, he watched the workmen swallow down their meal, and Zeff too, as the geezer debated relative drying times of different rooms and halls with the foreman, deciding which to do first.

He did find that overly acidic balance in his salad dressing, the too-light sweetness from the overdone onions in the chutney, and that hint of char on some of the potatoes.

Not five-star, by a tremendous long shot.

The paint-stained guy had seconds, though, and so did the beanpole. The big man who’d complained had thirds. The skinny teenager guy got into a bargaining argument over the last pork chop with the foreman, who finally just pulled rank and took it, but left the teenager the last potatoes.

The plates were cleaned by the end. The only leftover was the chutney--and that was a condiment that Sanji already had other plans for anyway.

“Kid, I don’t know how you’re gonna top this,” the foreman said, leaning back with a sigh and pushing his plate forward.

“Yeah, what’s for dinner?” the teenager asked eagerly, chasing the last of some juices around his plate with a final potato.

Sanji looked over at the geezer. Zeff crossed his arms and waited expectantly.

“Broccoli soup, garlic and parsley risotto, sea trout with baby leeks, crushed potato and tomato butter, ‘nother green salad and salt-baked pineapple for dessert,” Sanji said, and crossed his own arms right back.

The last of the fresh rhubarb would be in the pie for tomorrow. He could see it all in his mind’s eye already. If it wasn’t way too early, he’d already be in there, filleting that fish with his new knife.

If that menu was a good idea. Which it was, Sanji was sure. Definitely. But... was it?

“What’s ‘ree-zo-to’?” Sanji overheard a low whisper from across the table

“Who cares,” came the reply. “If he makes it, I’ll eat it.”

The corner of Zeff’s mouth twitched upward for a second, and was followed by a faint nod. “You’re the chef,” the shitty old man shrugged, and Sanji felt that altogether new sense of satisfaction again. It filled him, like food, but in his head. Or his heart.

“Yep,” he said, and looked at the emptied plates. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot cook. I definitely did not come up with Sanji's fancier food off the top of my head (well I did manage to think of pork chops and rhubarb pie on my own, but on the other hand, I've never actually seen risotto, heh). When I was trying to put together Sanji's menu, I picked a month at random (April) and went with seasonal recipes from [The Times Online](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/real_food/article3619623.ece), mainly because it popped up on Google for me.
> 
> Specific links:  
> [Rhubarb Chutney](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article2178976.ece)  
> [Sea Trout with Baby Leeks(etc)](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article2194029.ece)  
> [Garlic and Parsley Risotto](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article1973690.ece)  
> [Broccoli Soup](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article2194540.ece)  
> [Salt-Baked Pineapple](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article2194024.ece)  
> 


End file.
